


Storybook Endings

by Lint



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:44:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lint/pseuds/Lint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Happily ever after. Or something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ever After

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same universe as "rich girls don't marry poor boys."

They argue over names.

 

Ranging from the elegance of European aristocracy, to the ridiculousness of hipster bohemian themed monikers. Mostly, it's good natured ribbing, neither completely sold nor dismissive of each others suggestions, but always a defense of their own opinion being the correct one.

 

She refuses to acknowledge the book he combs through, the flat statement that her child's name will not be plucked from something with a cartoon duck on its cover. They run the mill of worthy characters from favorite books and movies. Audrey, the name itself and collection of her roles, a bit too obvious.

 

His attempts to appease her with nineteenth century British literature are met with immediate dismissal. Catherine, Ann, and Jane all too dull.

 

The baby kicks, and Blair guides Dan's hand so he can feel, smiling softly as his eyes widen with wonder. The discussion once again postponed for another day.

 

/\

 

Dorothy Isobel Humphrey is born on a Wednesday, at three-thirty in the morning, and is easily the most beautiful thing that they have ever seen. Her sister, born at three thirty-two, is the biggest surprise either of the proud parents have experienced.

 

All the preparation and planning, almost rendered void at the other child's sudden appearance. Dan can't help but laugh. The numerous doctor's appointments, hours accumulated with an ultrasound, and not once did someone indicated that a second life was growing inside of her.

 

Dorothy rests quietly in her mother's arms, while the doctor places the newest addition in Dan's. He calls her Alice because it is the first name that pops into his head, and Blair doesn't reject because she is too exhausted.

 

It amazes him, how she can appear so radiant and full of love, despite the fact that her mouth is grumbling about quack doctors and threatening legal action. He leans closer so that the girls can get their first glimpse of each other in the real world, and kisses his wife's damp forehead.

 

/\

 

The girls are a year old when Dan's third novel is released to mixed reviews.

 

He's reading a not so favorable one in the Times, when Blair walks into his office with a baby cradled safely in her arm, which she deposits easily into his.

 

“This one has been saying 'da-da' for the past five minutes,” she explains, pausing to place a kiss on the ridge of his brow. “So she's all yours.”

 

She exits quickly, leaving Dan to look down into a pair of wide anxious eyes, that look expectantly back at him. He's not sure if it's Alice or Dorothy, still too young to be able to tell them apart without some kind of indicator, one Blair must have left in the bassinet she pulled the child from.

 

“Now,” Dan says, shifting the baby into a more favorable position. “Which one are you?”

 

/\

 

The girls celebrate their third birthday at grandfather Harold's chateau.

 

Both wear matching blue dresses, at Eleanor's insistence, wanting just one set of adorably pedestrian pictures of her granddaughters. Blair's denial of the request is noted, logged, and completely ignored due to the fact that Eleanor designed them.

 

There are pictures, lots of them, but two in particular the most notable. One that resides in Blair's office at Vogue, is the girls beaming up at the camera, their smiles as radiant as the sun shining overhead. The other, both girls holding hands and staring dead into the lens, _come play with us Danny_ silently conveyed to the viewer, sits on Dan's desk at the New Yorker.

 

The tiara's are a touch Dan is weary of, not yet wanting to give them royalty complexes, but Blair is surprisingly defensive of the accessories.

 

“I wore one just like it at that age,” she says with an arch of her brow. “Besides, all little girls should be princesses in their father's eyes.”

 

Alice beams at the copy of the book bearing her namesake, thumbing through the pages though she can't understand the words, marveling at the pictures instead. Dorothy half glances at hers, before leaning over her sister's shoulder and trying to share the enthusiasm.

 

/\

 

Blair sits in a wrought iron garden chair on the other side of the yard, taking a minute to herself with a glass of wine in one hand, and Dorothy's copy of the Wizard of Oz in the other.

 

“You look tired,” Serena says as she approaches, taking the seat opposite.

 

Blair holds back from the biting reply, knowing her friend doesn't yet mean anything by it, but the old reflexes are always there.

 

“Twins,” she says with a small shrug instead.

 

Serena nods though they both know having children is still a far off idea for the buxom blonde. Husband number two is wandering around somewhere, and for the life of her Blair can't seem to recall his name.

 

“Happy too,” Serena continues in a murmur.

 

Blair eyes immediately look to where Dan has both girls perched on opposite knees, bouncing one then the other, sending them into fits of giggles. Her smile is automatic, though she does note the hint of longing in Serena's eyes, there and gone in just a second.

 

Blair knows she and Dan's unfinished business will always remain as such, but is no longer envious or intimidated of it. They had all the time in the world to make it work while she was off building a life for herself in Europe. But Serena ended up married to someone else, to no one's surprise.

 

Funny, she thinks, how she fought so hard for the idea of happily ever after. Only to have it collapse in front of her eyes time and again, and how the minute she stopped trying, along it came.  


	2. Left Hand, Right Hand

No matter how hard she tries, her leg won't stop shaking. Hands balled into fists in her lap, the solid wood of the chair underneath making her shift every couple of seconds, as she chews the inside of her cheek.

 

“Will you stop that?” Dorothy chides, placing a hand on her knee. “You keep acting guilty they're going to treat us that way.”

 

“We are guilty,” Alice shoots back, face flushing with anger and a bit of shame.

 

“Yeah well,” Dorothy sighs, leaning back in her chair. “As far as they're concerned the jury's still out. How did you screw this up anyway? You didn't wear your glasses did you?”

 

“I'm not a total moron thank you,” she replies, reaching into her bag and pulling out the case to prove it.

 

“You must have done something,” Dorothy insists.

 

“I didn't do anything,” Alice hisses. “Not a thing different from the dozen other times I've done this for you.”

 

A door creaks open at the end of the hall, both girls turn their heads to see, and balk immediately at the sight of their mother making her way toward them.

 

“Well that's unexpected,” Dorothy says quietly.

 

It is. Dad is usually the one to handle parent teacher conferences. Alice wonders if the circumstances of this disciplinary hearing is what could pull mom away from the office. Dorothy actually smiles.

 

“This could work.”

 

“How?”

 

“According to Aunt Serena, this is the kind of thing she and mom used to get in trouble for.”

 

Principal Queller opens the door the second their mother steps in front of them, they share a look.

 

“Miss Waldorf,” Queller says quizzically. “Why do I feel like we've been here before?”

 

/\

 

While scheming might have earned a hint of respect with mom, dad only looks disappointed. Sitting in his office, awaiting the reading of the riot act, Alice prepares a defense though she knows it probably won't do any good.

 

“This isn't the first time,” Dan starts, fingers steepled in front of his face. “Is it?”

 

The clever retort dies on the tip of her tongue, replying with a slow shake of the head.

 

“How many?”

She doesn't want to say, doesn't the look on his face to darken.

 

“More than a couple,” she replies neutrally. “Less than a dozen.”

 

His mouth twitches upward, there and gone in the fraction of a second.

 

“Have you ever done it with me? Or your mom?”

 

“I don't think you want to know the answer to that.”

 

“I wish you wouldn't let your sister talk you into these things.”

 

Defense of Dorothy rises on instinct. No one can talk ill of her, not even him.

 

“I was happy to do it,” she says, hoping her voice doesn't waver. “She knew she wasn't going to pass that test. She needed me.”

 

“Is that what she said?”

 

“What? No.”

 

“Ally...”

 

She knows the look on his face. The one searching for an explanation as to why she would do such a thing despite the full and clear knowledge that it was wrong. That she's still his sweet little girl who could never be capable of such deceit.

 

“Dad, I'm smarter than her. I know we don't talk about it, but she knows, just like you and mom know it too. And we're not going to get into the same college unless I step in every once in awhile.”

 

“No one says you have to go to the same college.”

 

“I want us to.”

 

“Well that sounds more like the truth, doesn't it?”

 

Alice doesn't reply to that.

 

“You do realize that getting caught cheating will hinder any acceptance from those Ivy League schools you dream of, don't you?”

 

She looks down into her lap.

 

“You won't be doing it again,” Dan asks, leaning forward. “Right?”

 

She shakes her head even though it's a lie. She'll switch places with her sister anytime the situation calls for it, any time she feels it necessary.

 

“For curiosity's sake,” he starts, receding back into his chair as she shifts uncomfortably in hers. “How did they catch you? If you're not wearing your glasses your mother and I still have trouble telling you apart.”

 

Alice holds up a hand.

 

“Dorothy doesn't write with her left,” she says with a shrug. “Mrs. Hartford noticed.”

 

/\

 

Dorothy sits on a stool at the breakfast nook, watching as mom takes her sweet time shuffling through the numerous boxes of tea, before finally settling on one and putting the kettle on the stove.

 

“I don't know why your father insists on cluttering up my cupboards with his endless supply of wannabe British imperialism.” Blair says with her back still turned. “But I do agree with his opinion about its calming effects.”

 

She turns to face her daughter, palms flat on the marble counter top, face calculating as a single brow arches upward.

 

“Well young lady,” she says. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

 

“Mrs. Hartford is a jealous old spinster, out to hold back the bright and beautiful because her own decisions in life left her bitter and alone.”

 

Blair leans back, folding her arms across her chest.

 

“Is that the best you can do?”

 

Dorothy bits her lip.

 

“Your execution was sloppy, overconfidence in you and your sister's similarities an easily detectable trait, leaving you wide open to get caught.”

 

Fists clench in her lap, the scathing reply of _we've gotten away with this more times than you realize_ , only held at bay by the sensation of fingernails digging into her palm. That and the sudden suspicion that her mother's provocation appears to be a trap to get her to unwittingly divulge just how many times she and Alice have switched.

 

“She wants to go to the same school,” Dorothy says instead.

 

“Is that what you want?”

 

“I don't want to leave her.”

 

Blair's face softens a little, but she still doesn't quite believe the reasoning.

 

“Are you leading me to believe that this entire body swapping scheme, had only the good intention of getting better grades, so you can unselfishly not abandon your sister?”

 

“Yes.”

 

It comes out smooth and firm, Dorothy knows she has to buy it herself to sell it, and that mom will pick up on any weakness in her defense. The kettle goes off, and Blair turns to pull it from the burner, pouring the steaming hot water into preset tea cups.

 

“I think you could have passed the test if you wanted to,” Blair says, setting a cup in front of Dorothy and taking a seat on the stool next to her. “If your effort in this little plan was focused on your schoolwork, I don't see how there would be a problem.”

 

Dorothy nods.

 

Then, with a mischievous grin, “but it was fun.”

 

She watches her mother's lips as they fight not to match her own, a low chuckle coming out instead.

 

“There's more to life than scheming, sweetheart.”

 

“At my age that's all you ever did,” Dorothy shoots back.

 

Blair blows cautiously on her tea.

 

“I will be having a talk with your Aunt about what stories are appropriate to be sharing with you, and besides,” she says, reaching out to cup Dorothy's cheek. “What kind of mother would I be if I let my daughter repeat my mistakes?”

 

/\

 

They lay side by side, flat on their stomachs on the rug in Dorothy's room. Alice flips through the worn copy of her namesake, while her sister paints her nails dark blue.

 

“Books are so archaic,” Dorothy says with a jut of her chin. “How many times can you read one story anyway?”

 

“As many times as I like,” Alice replies, eyes never wavering from the text. “This is only day two of our month long technology exile, got to pass the time somehow.”

 

One month's restriction isn't a dire punishment, all things considered. No computer, no tablet, no comm link. No social life. Plenty of free time to be spent studying. (Also plenty of time to meticulously plan for the next scheme, but that's a point neither girl felt to the need to bring up.)

 

Dorothy doesn't reply, tilting her nails into Alice's eye line for an opinion, who nonchalantly shrugs approval.

 

“I can't believe Dad is making you wear your glasses at school all day,” Dorothy goes on after a few minutes.

 

“He wants to be sure the teachers can tell who is who.”

 

“How is he even going to know if you do or not?”

 

“Because I promised him I would,” Alice responds, flipping a page and smiling at the picture. She turns to her sister, mouth stretched as far as it will go mimicking the Cheshire cat, and Dorothy just rolls her eyes giving a soft nudge of the shoulder.

 

“As sweet as pie aren't you?” She asks, reaching over to brush stray hair from Alice's forehead. “You've got them all fooled.”

 

“Dad thinks we're too dependent on each other,” Alice says, looking back to the book.

 

“Mom said something similar,” Dorothy offers, attention returning to her nails.

 

“They don't-”

 

“-get it, I know.”

 

Muffled voices carry through the door, causing both girls to look up at the same time. The sound of their parents arguing is nothing new, nor worrisome. Most times it's just a simple disagreement that escalates into raised voices and mild insults, but always ends with a laugh, a smile, and _I love you._

 

“Wonder what it's about this time,” Dorothy mutters, focusing on a ring finger.

 

“Movie night,” Alice answers.

 

Dorothy groans.

 

“So that means we're trapped in here?”

 

“Pretty much.”

 

“Great.”

 

Dorothy doesn't understand how making a point to watch movies, that are nearly a hundred years old, can still hold an appeal. They always start with best intentions of enjoying whatever relic they pull from the internet, but get sidelined with endless bickering and end up making out on the couch.

 

She shivers. _Gross_.

 

“It cute they still do it,” Alice says, looking at the door.

 

“Only you would think that.”

 

Alice grins, moving to her feet and toward the door.

 

“Ew Ally, don't.”

 

She opens it just a crack, and though her back is turned, Dorothy knows she's smiling at the nausea inducing visage of their parents cuddled up together. Alice waves a hand from behind her back, and Dorothy sighs heavily but gets up from the floor.

 

“If they're kissing, or something else as equally disgusting, I will destroy you.”

 

“Just shut up and look.”

 

Dorothy peeks through the crack, sees Mom's head resting comfortably on Dad's arm, the argument over as quickly as it began.

 

“See?” Alice chides. “Totally cute.”

 

“Whatever,” Dorothy shoots back, resting her chin on Alice's shoulder, and smiles before she can help it.  


	3. Interludes

Alice is seven years old when she learns that she doesn't share everything with her sister.

 

It was just a test, everyone had to take it, but only she gets to sit between her parents in front of Headmistress Constantine's desk because of the results. Her insides twist with a discomfort she's only felt when sick and daddy sits by the bed reading stories and feeding her soup.

 

Fear that she's done so awful, her parents had to be called in.

 

Her legs kick anxiously to and fro, the chair too big for her feet to touch the ground, and she keeps glancing back to the door where Dorothy waits on the other side.

 

“Stop it sweetheart,” Mommy says, a firm hand placed on her knee.

 

Alice's legs cease instantly, but the hallow feeling in her stomach carries on. Daddy glances down, gives the same goofy grin he's been flashing since she was a baby, but it offers little relief. She wishes she had her book, it always makes her feel better, or her stuffed rabbit Whitey.

 

At the very least she wants Dorothy in the room, her sister's hand always making her feel braver than she is.

 

“Mr. and Mrs. Humphrey,” the headmistress starts. “I know you must be curious as to why I asked you here today.”

 

“Nothing bad I hope,” Daddy says.

 

Alice stares at her hands, fidgeting endlessly in her lap, her mind scrambling for anything else she may have done to be in so much trouble.

 

“Quite the opposite,” Headmistress Constantine replies in earnest. “Your little Alice here has received the highest score on her mid-year aptitude test.”

 

“In her class?” Mommy asks.

 

Alice looks up just enough to see the headmistress shake her head.

 

“Her grade?” Daddy offers.

 

“That I've ever had the privilege to see,” the headmistress says leaning forward, clasping her hands as she does.

 

Alice's cheeks flush as mommy and daddy share a look, the shock and awe obvious, even to one as young as she.

 

“I asked you here,” Constantine goes on, “to discuss possible advancement.”

 

Opposite hands hug opposite shoulders, Alice feeling like the peanut butter in a sandwich she doesn't remember asking for, while the adults talk about her future and don't even think to include her in the conversation.

 

She wriggles out of her parents embrace, sits up and high as she can in the big chair, and looks Headmistress Constantine square in the eye.

“Can Dorothy come?”

 

Her face goes blank a second too long, that awkward silence adults get when they try to figure out just how much a girl like her can understand, even after she's stymied them into realizing she can understand quite a bit.

 

She feels Daddy's hand on her back, Mommy's on the top of her head.

 

_Well_ , Alice thinks. _That's the end of that._

 

/\

 

Dorothy is nine years old when inspiration and mischief combine in the perfect mix of her young life.

 

Forced to attend some charity art event because the sitter backed out at the last minute, (as if Mom needed another reason to hate Aunt Jenny), she stands one step above Alice at the entrance of the gallery while they are made to promise to be on their best behavior.

 

Somehow she keeps her mouth shut while Dad lists off all the possible punishments if they step out of line, eyes pointed in her direction, and she knows he's thinking of the Hamptons incident just as she.

 

For the first hour, she and Alice stand obediently at their parent's sides, Dorothy listening to every (boring) adult's (boring) conversation about how this (boring) event is just so wonderful. She almost screams just for something to happen, when she spots an out.

 

Mom and Dad are so engrossed talking to some old guy with a pretty noticeable bald spot, that they haven't looked down for almost five whole minutes. She taps Alice's shoulder, before grabbing her elbow, swiftly and quietly pulling her away.

 

Dorothy almost giggles, she's so giddy with relief and blows the whole thing. They wander through a labyrinth of sculptures perched on pedestals, happily ignoring the signs that ask them not to and sneak touches.

 

Alice distracts unwitting adults with the cuteness of playing with her glasses and knowledge beyond her age, while Dorothy hides under the hors d'oeuvre table and ties their shoelaces together. They hide away inside a giant piece called 'Excess in Capitalism' (Alice actually read the plaque because only a nerd like her cares what these things are called) that just looks like a bunch of junk held together with wire. Jumping out at random passers by and causing more than one to spill champagne all over their fancy clothes.

 

The fun comes to an end when Dorothy notices that those gross little fish eggs everyone is eating, look almost exactly like the beads on one of her bracelets. She's in the process of inserting them into the dish, when a painting behind the table catches her eye.

 

It's not one of those old time ladies posing nude in a room full of vases, or a landscape made out of a million tiny dots, but an explosion of shapes and color that leaves her momentarily still. The stray thought of _I can do that_ , entering her mind.

 

Alice coughs the signal a second too late, as Mom's hand snatches her wrist.

 

“That's enough” she hisses in that scary whisper scream of hers. “We're leaving.”

 

She marches them swiftly through the gallery, almost too fast for their shorter legs to keep up, and doesn't lighten her grip on either of their wrists until they reach outside.

 

“Dorothy Isobel and Alice Eleanor,” she starts, teeth clenched in motherly fury. “I have never been so embarrassed in my life. Tell me, did I raise you like this? Did I even once indicate that the behavior you exhibited tonight is acceptable?”

 

Alice flushes hotly and stares down at her shoes. Dorothy feels a slight sting of shame, if only for getting caught. Dad walks up, stands with arms crossed next to Mom, and surprisingly lets her go on instead of calming her down like usual.

 

“Your actions are reflective of us,” she continues, eyes full of hurt and anger. “Of our family. Those people in there must think we're the worst parents in the world for having children behave in such a manner.”

 

“You're not!” Alice interjects.

 

Mom's expression doesn't soften, not even when the tears spill down her sister's cheeks, and Dorothy knows then that they're really in for it when they get home.

 

“Well young lady,” Mom demands. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

 

She looks at both her parents, hands moving to clasp behind her back.

 

“Can I have a paintbrush?”

 

/\

 

The girls are thirteen years old when they get into a fight over a Halloween costume.

 

Alice holds it with an outstretched arm in the middle of Dorothy's room, a proud smile on her face.

 

“I'm not wearing that,” she says flatly, barely looking up from her tablet.

 

The smile drops instantly.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I don't want to. You wear it.”

 

“But I got it for you! Look there's a basket and everything!”

 

“Okay,” Dorothy sighs, rolling her eyes dramatically. “I get that you're like, totally obsessed with that girl who fell down the rabbit hole, but what makes you think I want to pretend to be some scared little interloper begging every passerby for help to find my way home?”

 

Alice's face pinches in disappointment.

 

“You don't like it? Fine! Forget it! Just... _Forget it!_ ”

 

She lets the dress and basket drop to the floor storming out of the room. Dorothy keeps playing her game and doesn't look up a few minutes later when the tell tale tap of her father's knuckles on the door frame is meant for her to.

 

“Everything okay?” He asks, even though it's obvious otherwise.

 

“Sure,” she replies, still focused.

 

From the corner of her eye, she watches him stay in the door a few seconds before stepping inside and picking the dress up from the carpet.

 

“That sounded harsh,” he comments, taking a seat on the bed.

 

“You were listening?”

 

“I heard,” he answers with a shrug. “Doesn't mean I was listening.”

 

Dorothy still doesn't look up.

 

“It was a nice thing she did.”

 

She sighs, pausing her game and meeting her father's eyes.

 

“Why does she have to be a baby all the time?”

 

“Technically, she is the baby.”

 

“Only by minutes. Dad, she acts like she's six around Halloween, and has worn the same costume every year since you started letting us pick for ourselves. And every year she wants us to do some variation of the theme, and I'm sorry but I'm so over it, I have a reputation to uphold.”

 

“Oh boy,” he mutters, a slight tremor in his heart at the prospect of dealing with yet another queen.

 

“I don't know what you and Mom were thinking with this name scheme. It's not cute, you know? People think they know us because they read something once. Like we're the freakin' storybook twins or something.”

 

“That doesn't sound so bad.”

 

Dorothy's scowl conveys that it is certainly bad enough.

 

“Ally's ridiculous _thing_ with that girl really doesn't help.”

 

Dan looks down at the dress spread across his lap, hands smoothing out the blue gingham.

 

“You weren't named after the book.”

 

“What?”

 

“Do you really think,” he starts, turning to her with a knowing grin. “That your mother would name you after a farm girl from Kansas?”

 

Dorothy returns the grin. She really wouldn't.

 

“We fought over what to call you,” he continues. Tooth and nail. Everything I wanted, she hated. Everything she wanted, I found pretentious. So one night, we're watching Carmen-”

 

“What's that?”

 

He nods at her tablet.

 

“Look it up. Anyway, Dorothy Dandridge comes onscreen and we both just kind of looked at each other. Suffice to say, the arguing pretty much stopped.”

 

“Hard to imagine you and Mom agreeing on anything,” Dorothy retorts, scrolling through all the new information presented before her.

 

“A rare moment,” he agrees.

 

“She's beautiful,” she says, offering the picture for him to see.

 

“Call me biased, but I think you have her beat.”

 

“Duh, but still, wow.”

 

“We had no idea that there were two of you,” he goes on. “To this day I can't even imagine with all of modern medicine how that happened. But seeing you in your Mom's arms, and holding her in mine, it felt like wonderland. So I called her Alice. It wasn't planned.”

 

“So it's your fault?”

 

“Please don't talk like you mother, it's unsettling. Though I guess, if you must put it in those terms, it is.”

 

He puts a hand on her shoulder, the other offering another look at the dress.

 

“I know how the dynamic works, but Alice doesn't ask much of you, it won't hurt to indulge her for one night.”

 

Dorothy groans, reaching out to run her fingers over the fabric. Though it feels beneath her, she does look good in blue.

 

“I promise nothing.”   


	4. Pieces

The girls are five years old when Dan writes a short story called _Twins in New York_.

 

Trying, for once, at whimsy rather than satirical social commentary, he all but forgets about it until Lily and Rufus are over for a visit, and she finds the printed copy he never got around to editing on the coffee table.

 

Next thing he knows they're standing in the middle of Strawberry Fields, watching the girls do cartwheels in the grass, while Lily snaps photo after photo putting visuals to the words.

 

“No stains!” Blair warns, hoping to their clothes will remain flawless.

 

Dan snorts and looks away from the glare shot at him. Blair's one concession to the project was that she and she alone got to pick their outfits, despite objecting to Lily's insistence that they match perfectly.

 

Mary Jane's and patterned white tights, old fashioned waistcoats of the bluest blue, buttoned all the way up to their necks and topped off with hats that make them look like they were transported from another time.

 

Next stop, the observation deck of the Empire State Building. The girls sit side by side in front of the guard railing, and for some reason Alice can't stop giggling while Dorothy just stares at her like she's crazy. The picture becomes an odd contrast of one girl's uninhibited joy against the others stone faced curiosity of it.

 

Blair holds his hand almost the entire time they're up there. It takes that long for him to see what she sees. Their daughters, the man, and the city she loves all encompassed in a panoramic view.

 

For a moment his heart is so full it could burst.

 

Last stop is the Met steps. Dan almost laughs at the sight of Dorothy and Alice perched where their mother once ruled with a scheming heart and razor tongue. They walk precariously along the edges, hands reaching for one another on instinct when getting to close to going over.

 

One photo Dan will keep on his nightstand until the day he dies, is Dorothy standing perfectly still with her mischievous little eyes plotting away, while Alice stands at her left with an accepting smile. Telling that, whatever her sister does, she will follow.

 

On the cab ride home, the girls perched protectively between their parents, they fall asleep huddled against each other. Dan looks to Blair and she to him, both thinking how long and how much took to get to this place, and that they wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

 

/\/\/\

 

The girls are fifteen years old when they (one of them anyway) start dating.

 

Alice sits at the breakfast nook, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, trying to concentrate on the text of her advanced chemistry book. Her pen taps restlessly against the pages, cup after cup of tea being consumed, as she glances at the clock every few minutes.

 

Dorothy is supposed to be here for a much needed tutoring session, but is off doing who knows what with her boyfriend, Rogers Willingham. An artists heart and a sailor's mouth is how she describes him. Totally her type.

 

The added 's' annoys her for reasons she can't apply logic to because really, what kind of parent pluralizes an only child's name? As well as the way her sister suddenly acts like the sun rises and falls with him.

 

It's not completely unexpected, that Dorothy would be the first to get a beau, she always being the more outgoing one.

 

Oh, how her sister has tried to throw boys her way, but not a single one has been able to keep up conversationally, and no matter what Dorothy insists she will not tone it down for the sake of simple arm candy.

 

She keeps her eyes on the book as Mom walks into the kitchen, but watches her pull a bottle of water from the fridge, leaning against the counter and taking a drink.

 

“Just you?”

 

Alice nods without lifting her head up.

 

“Where is-”

 

“I don't know,” she snaps unintentionally, the harsh clink of the tea cup being forced onto the saucer echoing in the kitchen. Blair's eyebrows lift, before shaking her head and smiling softly.

 

“I think I should have been more prepared for this.”

 

“Oh boy,” Alice mutters.

 

“Sweetheart, when you get to a certain age,” she starts, stops and scowls a second trying to figure out how to put this, always considering Alice to be more sensitive of the two.

 

“Mom, I think we both know sugar coating it is more Dad's forte, so you don't have to bother.”

 

“Oh, thank god,” Blair says, screwing the cap back on her bottle. “It's like this. Your sister met a boy, and suddenly he's the be all end all to her existence because to her hormonally charged thought process, he is.”

 

Alice's eyes go wide. Maybe sugar coating was the better idea because she does not want to talk about her sisters hormones.

 

“Your social lives have been intertwined since before you could speak, and now it's changing-”

 

“The change I get,” Alice interrupts, absently spinning her cup around.

 

“Then what is it?”

 

“He's just so... Ugh!” She says, her whole body clenching into a fist. “His grubby, holier than thou art pedigree. How he lords it over everyone. Like I'm not worthy of conversation because I'd rather solve quantum equations than slather some paint on canvas. And she hardly ever defends me, it's just, he's so _beneath_ her.”

 

Alice scowls when her mother chuckles softly at the rant.

 

“You don't have to laugh at me,” she mutters, cheeks flushing scarlet.

 

“It's not at you,” Blair assures. “It's just that, well, I used to think the same about your father.”

 

“That's really not helping,” Alice replies, gathering up her books and swiftly exiting the kitchen.

 

“Sweetie, wait! I-”

 

Blair sighs when Alice doesn't turn back.

 

“Well that was some fine parenting,” she says quietly to herself.  


	5. Fashionistas

The girls are sixteen when Mamie Eleanor asks them to be the faces of her new spring line. Dorothy is so excited, she's practically jumping in place, clapping her hands and emitting a noise that could crack glass. 

Blair stands with her arms crossed, head shaking with less than fond memories of the single time her mother thought nepotism would be mutually beneficial. Alice stands there taking in the scene, unsure how to feel about the offer, and adjusts her glasses unnecessarily because she doesn't know what to do with her hands. 

Dorothy and Mamie converse back and forth in such an enthused tit for tat, it's hard to keep track of. Discussing just what sort of clothes they'll be wearing, what the shoots will involve, even though Alice nor Blair have agreed to anything. 

The scowl on her mother's face is understandable. Alice knows, just as Dorothy does, that the one and only attempt at modeling their mother made ended up an unmitigated disaster. (Another embarrassing adolescent tale courtesy of Aunt Serena.) 

It's obvious that it's not even a flicker of a thought in Dorothy's mind, but Alice can see the memory flashing before her mother's eyes. 

“Mom?” She asks tentatively, reaching for hand that's balled into a fist. 

Eyes shift into focus, a terse smile on her lips.   
“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You can't say no.”

The smile drops instantly. 

“Excuse me?”

“Look at her,” Alice continues, nodding in her sister's direction. “She wants this. Badly. If you take it away, a piece of her will always hate you for it.” 

Blair blinks at the blunt honesty, the girl clearly her father's daughter. 

“What about you?” She asks. “Is this something you want?” 

Alice simply shrugs. 

“Doesn't matter.” 

Blair puts a hand on her arm. 

“Alice, honey. You don't have-”

“Yes I do,” she insists. “And so do you, okay?”

A moment passed before Blair nods her agreement. 

“Then it's settled.”

Alice moves to stand next to Dorothy, who immediately loops their arms together, as their grandmother beams with pride. 

Blair shakes her head and laughs softly. 

Dan is going to love this. 

/\

A tear slips down her cheek as she hisses against the sting. This being the seventh time, at least, she's been jabbed with the seamstress' needle. Never would she have thought standing still could be so difficult. 

Dorothy had gone through her alterations in no time flat, never once getting poked with this sadist's instrument of torture, now sitting in a chair watching all this happen with a bemused expression.  
When stuck an eighth time, she cries out, instinctively pulling away from the pain and ripping all the precariously places pins from the fabric. 

The seamstress throws up her hands in exasperation, vocalizing her displeasure in a flurry of French. Though Alice is a bit out of practice, she can pick up a few things along the lines of foolish child, how am I ever going to finish, and can't work like this. 

She sighs loudly and excuses herself, leaving Alice standing there with half a dress hanging off of her, and Dorothy bursts out laughing.

“The things I do for you,” Alice mutters. 

/\

They've been sitting in the man made pond for over an hour. 

Which wasn't terrible the first twenty minutes or so, splashing each other, laughing and actually having fun. The photographer, however, must have lost his train of thought because ever since the first dozen photos were taken, he hasn't liked a thing single thing seen and refuses to let them get out of the water. Her feet are going numb. 

Even Dorothy, who made Alice swear a pact about being the utmost professional, has her enthusiasm waning when her teeth start to chatter. Alice doesn't remotely understand the concept of the shoot. How is the sight of a sopping wet dress supposed to make someone want to buy it? 

Yesterdays made a bit more sense, the two of them having tea in a well landscaped garden, where the biggest risk was thinking that her arm might fall off from holding up a cup for so long. Now hypothermia seems a real possibility. 

Also, Dorothy can't seem to help digging her nails into Alice's arm every time one of the Koi fish brush her leg, which seems to happen with more frequency the longer they stay. 

“I swear to god,” Dorothy says through grit teeth. “I'll go all diva on him if he keeps this up any longer.” 

Alice laughs. 

“Not as glamorous as you thought, is it?” 

Dorothy has no reply to that, but gives her sister's arm another indentation when a fish looks like it's getting too close. 

/\

Five minutes until they have to walk on the runway, and Alice is having a panic attack trying to hide behind a rack of dresses. It was a mistake, poking her head through the curtain, curious to see just how many people actually go to these things. 

The answer, it turns out, is quite a lot. 

It's as if she can feel them all out there, the eyes waiting to scrutinize and judge every inch of her, wanting to see if she falls flat on her face. (Which is a distinct probability in the shoes they put her in.) 

It doesn't help that practically the whole family is out there too. Mom and Dad. Mamie and Cyrus. Grandpa Rufus and Lily. Aunt Serena and Jenny. Uncle Eric and Nate. 

She starts nibbling on her knuckles, because Dorothy had already smacked the hand straight out of her mouth earlier, for chewing her nails and ruining the first coat of nail polish applied. 

The hair stands on the back of her neck as her heartbeat doubles. Why did she agree to do this? It's one thing to have only a handful of people standing around gawking while you have your picture taken. But this, all those people. She doesn't even like presenting reports in class, and suddenly she's supposed to strut her stuff in front of a thousand strangers?

Dorothy finds her shaking and hugging herself, still hiding away behind the dress rack. 

“Oh god,” she says, emphasizing the vowels. “What's wrong with you?” 

Alice stares down at her toes, all sparkly perfect and poking out of ridiculous heels. 

“I, uh,” Alice stutters. “I mean, I-”

“Don't freak out on me now,” Dorothy interrupts, taking her sister's arm in a firm grip. “Look at me.” 

Alice keeps her head down.

“Ally, look at me.” 

Dorothy's fingers move to cup her chin, tilting it up so their eyes meet. 

“It's just you and me out there, okay? It's always going to be you and me.” 

She lets go of Alice's face, her arm, but takes point and twines their fingers together. 

“Come on,” Dorothy says with confidence. “We got this.” 

The light is unnecessarily bright when they step onto the runway, camera flashes adding extra stars in her eyes, and reminds her why she hates wearing contacts. 

With every step her confidence begins to build, trying not to smile when she sees her parents in the front row, or frown at how they disappear when another shot is taken. 

Alice does not blink, only breathes, and is sure to keep her head held high never once letting go of Dorothy's hand.


	6. Bonded

The girls are seven when Alice gets sick. 

Dorothy stands in front of her sister's door with arms folded and face pinched into a scowl, because she's not allowed to go in. Which is just ridiculous, because if anyone has complete and total access, it's her. 

As soon as the door opens she makes a move, but Dan is quick to place a halting hand on her shoulder. 

“Now, now,” he says in a soft but firm tone. “You know you're not supposed to go in there.” 

Dorothy twists away from his grasp, looking up with a withering glare reminiscent of her mother. 

“She needs me.”

“I know that Didi, but-”

“Don't call me that,” she interrupts. 

Dan is taken aback. “I always call you that.” 

“I don't like it.” 

The little girl's stare never wavers. 

“I want to see her.” 

“Getting that,” Dan says. “But she's sick. We don't want you to get it too.” 

“I don't care.”

“I know you don't sweetheart,” he goes on, putting a palm between her shoulders and gently nudging along. “But think about Mommy and me. The both of you under the weather? I think our heads would explode.”

Blair smacks his arm when they walk into the kitchen. 

“That's not a proper visual for a child.” 

Dan looks down at Dorothy with a grin. 

“This one's tough.” 

/\/\/\

Miss Hensley has already warned her twice about paying attention, but Dorothy's head keeps craning toward Alice's empty seat regardless. They're not able to sit together of course, their desks on opposite sides of the classroom, but no matter how hard she tries to concentrate the absence of her sister is felt, and she keeps gazing at the spot where she should be. 

/\/\/\

Dan is in his office. 

Blair is on the phone, speaking in rapid French. 

Dorothy sits on the sofa with homework in her lap, pretending to be busy, even though she'd finished twenty minutes ago. She counts to a hundred once, twice, three times. Mommy is still talking, Daddy is still working, and Alice is still locked away in her room. 

Glancing over her shoulder, Dorothy watches her mother pouring over papers and looking more frustrated by the minute. She glances down the hall, still empty and inviting. Quietly slipping from her seat, she pauses at the arm of the sofa waiting to be noticed, and moves quickly when she isn't. 

She scampers the to foot of the hallway, stopping to listen to the tell tale clicking sound of Daddy making up stories. Freezing mid step when the ticking stops, she holds her breath and wills herself invisible. 

Shooting past the doorway when it starts up again, she doesn't stop moving until in front of Alice's room. Hand on the knob, she takes one last precautionary glance behind her before opening the door and slipping inside. 

Alice lies on her side with the covers tucked all the way up to her chin, eyes closed with breath going in and out in congested hitches. Dorothy moves to the bed, placing her hand on Alice's forehead like she's seen Mommy do a million times in the past two days. 

It's warm. 

Too warm, Dorothy thinks, as she dips her fingers into the cup of water resting on the nightstand before spreading cool drops of liquid across her sister's heated skin. Alice's eyes peer open, a small smile on her lips at the sight of Dorothy, accompanied by a hallow cough. 

“You're not supposed to be here,” she says in a whisper. 

Dorothy shrugs. 

Alice lifts up the covers, Dorothy doesn't hesitate at the wordless invitation, sliding easily into the bed and snuggling up close enough to rest her chin on Alice's shoulder. 

This is how Blair finds them twenty minutes later when she comes to check on Alice, huddled up and sound asleep. Dan can only shake his head and laugh when she calls him to come see. 

“Can't say we didn't try,” he says with a grin. 

“Certainly not,” she agrees looping her arm through his. 

/\/\/\

Friday evening and Grand Central is bustling with people going to or coming from, as Dan and Blair watch with bemused expressions, at the sight of their twelve year old's trying their damnedest to act nonchalant about the weekend separation. 

Dan is going up to Hudson to visit his mother. Dorothy is tagging along because Granny Allison promised to teach her a new line technique. 

Blair is staying behind because the last thing she wants do as spring blooms in New York, is spend a miserable two days at her mother in law's hippie art commune. Alice is staying with her because she has an academic competition on Saturday noon. 

The girls stand facing each other, each with a foot turned inward, one opposite of the other. Dan finds the sight so adorable he secretly takes a picture with his phone. The boarding call for their train booms over the loudspeaker, and Dan picks up he and Dorothy's luggage. 

“Bye,” Dorothy says to Alice.

“Bye,” Alice echoes. 

Dan walks with Dorothy toward the platform. 

Blair walks with Alice toward the exit. 

Each girl makes a point of not looking back.

/\

Dorothy stares blankly out of the window, open sketch book in her lap, with a blank page staring back because it is too dark for scenic inspiration to roll by. Dan idly scrolls for a book to read on his tablet, occasionally glancing down at his normally more talkative daughter. 

Half way there, she shifts in her seat every few minutes as if it is the most uncomfortable thing she's ever sat in, and keeps looking at the empty two across from them like they'll magically be occupied by the missing members of the family. 

It's then that Dan realizes this is the first trip one of them has taken without the other. 

/\

Blair puts a cup of apple juice in front of Alice, who scribbles and solves various problems out of an SAT prep book Dan had gotten for her out of some used book store. And while Blair has always encouraged her daughter's intelligence and work ethic, the intense determination and unwillingness to pause for even a moment, is causing some concern. 

“Sweetheart,” she starts, nudging the cup a little closer. “Why don't you take a little break?” 

Alice waits until finishing her latest problem before looking up, glasses falling halfway down her nose, and turns her head to the empty seat next to her. 

“No thanks,” she says, reaching for the cup and gulping it down. 

/\

“How was the train?” Blair asks when Dan calls to let her know they've arrived in one piece. 

“Oddly uneventful,” he replies, the shuffling clink of pulling cups from a cupboard carrying across the receiver. “Aside from a little problem sitting still, she hardly said a word. How's Alice?” 

Blair glances at the girl in question, still pouring over the book, the half eaten remnant of a muffin that took far too much convincing for her to consume lays on a plate next to her hand. 

“A machine,” she answers. “She hasn't put that book you got her down since we came home. I think I may actually have to pry it from her hands come bedtime.” 

Dan chuckles. “Good luck with that.” 

Blair can only sigh. 

“Kisses to Dorothy.” 

“Back at you, beautiful.”

/\

Dorothy stares at the blue purplish blob that is somehow supposed to transform into a sunset with the fancy thin line brushes Granny gave her. But for whatever reason, she can't seem to feel the picture coming out of her like it does with all her other works. 

It looks like a blob, and will likely stay a blob, and it should be so freaking easy because it's just a stupid sunset. Suddenly so frustrated, she jumps to her feet and kicks the easel over before storming off down to the creek behind the house. 

Allison stares open mouthed at the outburst, looking over to her son, whose brows are furrowed with worry. 

“Does that normally happen when something doesn't work for her?” 

“No,” Dan answers, looking off in the direction where Dorothy disappeared into the surrounding trees. “She usually gets Alice to-” 

He stops himself, pausing for a quick sip of coffee to keep the smile off his face. 

“Normally, Alice will critique something for her, and they'll talk about what's missing if anything, and it usually works itself out.” 

“Oh,” Allison says, surveying the damage left behind. “God help her instructors is she ever goes to art school.”

/\

Alice's team gets second place in the competition, the girl herself tackling almost a third of the questions alone. Blair swells with pride as the awards are handed out, the silver medal placed over her daughter's head, and sends a picture to Dan who replies back enthusiastic congratulations. 

When Alice walks off the stage, Blair pulls her into a hug, one that is hardly reciprocated. 

“Something wrong?” She asks, letting go. 

“It's silver,” Alice replies, looking down at her shoes. 

“Which I'm sure you could tell me the atomic number of, if I asked. Be happy, darling. It's quite the accomplishment.” 

“It should be gold,” she says fiddling with the medal and looking over toward the victors. “If she were here...” 

It comes out softly as she looks back to her mother. 

“Oh Alice,” Blair starts, having no idea what to say to such a statement. “Honey, she'll be proud of you no matter what. So will your father. Just like I am now.” 

Alice blinks before taking off her glasses and running the back of her hand quickly across her eyes. 

“Can we go home now?”

/\

“Progress report?” Dan asks when he calls later that night, almost afraid of the answer. 

“She hasn't come out of her room.” 

“Yeah, Dorothy has pretty much kept to herself after the... incident, too.” 

“I don't think it's about not winning,” Blair goes on. “But that Dorothy wasn't there.” 

“Feels like that here.” 

They both shuffle the phone to opposite ears. 

“Dan, I don't,” she starts and stops, running a tired hand across her forehead. “This isn't good. They should be able to do things individually. They can't be paired up for the rest of their lives.” 

“I know,” he concurs. “But if you think about it, this is really the first time they've been separated. Of course it was going to be rough.”

“It's only two days.”

“Twins,” he replies as if it answers anything. 

She mulls over the realization, long enough for Dan to think she's hung up.

“Hello?”

“I hate it when you're right,” she murmurs. 

“But you love me anyway.” 

“Hanging up now.”

“See you tomorrow, Waldorf.”

/\

Dorothy taps her foot impatiently as the train slows to a crawl, ready to spring from her seat as soon as it stops. 

Alice taps on the door of the taxi in a matching rhythm, groaning inwardly at the traffic, and wishing everyone on the street would disappear, if only for a moment. 

The train stops and Dan puts a hand on Dorothy's shoulder to keep her from running flat out once they step onto the platform. 

The cab pulls up to the station and Blair takes hold of Alice's wrist to keep her from darting into the sea of people. 

Dan smirks as Dorothy pulls him along, zigging and zagging through the crowd on auto pilot, knowing exactly where she's going. 

Blair shuffles and nearly looses her footing, heels sliding easily across the linoleum, as Alice pulls her along making a beeline directly where she wants to go. 

Dan and Blair's eyes meet a split second before their children, both having the good sense to let go the last few feet, watching as the girl's embrace each other. How they teeter to and fro, squeezing as hard as they can, a conversation exchanged at an impossible rate with nay a word spoken. 

Blair looks at Dan, and he at her, both thinking that the dependence their daughters have on one another is a legitimate and growing concern. Hope that they can grow beyond it. Dread that steps may need to be taken. 

But in this moment, watching them together, neither has the heart to force the issue.


	7. Tricky

Dorothy sits idly on the edge of her bed, fingers and toes curling against the comforter and carpet respectively, internal tension from boredom slowly building.

Alice is off tutoring underprivileged children or whatever, always looking for that ever important footnote on a college application. None of their friends are replying to any of her messages, there isn't a damn thing on TV or the internet worth paying attention to, and the thought of talking to either one of her parents merely for the sake of interaction is so depressing, she may as well just open her window and leap.

She crosses the hall into Alice's room, pausing ever so briefly at the momentary sensation that she isn't supposed to be there, before moving toward the closet and sliding open the door. Frowning slightly at the sight of all the cardigans, sensible blouses, and pencil skirts, (all perfectly arranged by season, style, and color.) Dorothy scoffs aloud as her fingers rummage through the clothes.

“Yeah, you're a genius,” she mutters to herself. “Does that mean you have to dress like a librarian?”

There's yellow, so much yellow, pink and blue. Dorothy must not have been paying very much attention to Alice's fashion choices outside of their Constance uniforms lately, because there is no way she can allow her sister to continue to dress like a carton full of Easter eggs.

All the shoes, mostly Mary Jane style flats with a strap, are all arranged meticulously into little cubbies set on the floor.

Dorothy's face pinches in disappointment at just how dull this snoop is turning out to be. No secret diary or shrine to some embarrassing pop star she'd never admit liking to be found. Just the typical by the book organization that has come to match her sister's personality set apart from her own.

Her finger pauses on a particular sweater that, on closer inspection, doesn't appear to be completely terrible. Pulling it up to her chest, Dorothy turns toward the vanity on the opposite side of the room and holds it up. A small rose is embroidered over the left breast, her finger moving to touch the raised thread, and allows herself the vacant thought that she could pull this look off.

Not bad, she muses pulling it from the hanger to put on properly. Not bad at all.

The skirt Dorothy has on doesn't match, but the one coordinated with it from the closest does completely, and she switches them without a second thought. Though her stockings definitely give the ensemble a bit more pop that Alice would ever concede to, Dorothy likes what she sees.

Taking a step closer to the mirror, she picks up a comb and proceeds to brush out all her carefully crafted curls. Once done, she reaches for one of the numerous headbands perfectly displayed on a velvet covered arm jutting out from the side of the vanity.

The sight of her reflection causes a sound that can only be described as banshee-esque, one hand immediately slapping over her mouth. She's a twin, and an uncanny resemblance to her sister is an expectation that comes with such genetic coincidence. But this is the first time since they were little, and one of their grandparents would get away with dressing them alike, that she was ever truly looked like Alice without uniforms forced upon them by means of their education.

Dorothy takes a pair of glasses resting on a white piece of linen and puts them on, her reflection immediately blurring.

Looking over to the bed where Alice's stuffed rabbit is always carefully perched, she takes a step left to pluck it from the comforter. The obsession her sister holds with this story is just something Dorothy herself will never understand, thankful for Dad's revelation that her own name wasn't plucked from the pages of a storybook, even if the scheme is sadly sugar coated.

“Yes, I am Alice,” she says with a giggle. “Curiouser and curiouser!”

She almost wants to take a picture, post it to the internet, and ask all the anonymous weirdos if they can tell who is who. Instead she walks out into the kitchen, where Mom sits at the table with her laptop, and pours a glass of pomegranate juice.

“Thought you were at the library,” Mom says without looking up.

Dorothy shrugs a reply, making sure to take a big gulp so she doesn't have to speak, knowing that her mother could tell the difference with the indicator.

“Do us a favor sweetheart,” Mom says, eyes still focused on her work. “And check on your sister. She's been quiet entirely too long, and I think we both know what kind of mischief that can lead to.”

She nearly draws blood from biting her tongue, because really, what is that supposed to mean? Do she and Alice have some sort of secret pact of checks and balances about her?  
She takes another careful shot of juice, swallows down the anger with the tart, and allows a clipped 'okay' before walking back down the hall.

In Alice's room again, placing her cup on the desk, she moves toward the vanity. Though the blurred vision is starting to wear on her eyes, she leaves the glasses on.

 _Check on your sister_ , she thinks. _Quiet for too long. Mischief._

God, they really have no clue what their precious little Alice is capable of.

The reflection makes her scowl, a sweet as pie kind of girl who no one would ever suspect of any wrong doing, staring back.

“I'm Alice,” she mutters through a forced smile. “I'm so nice. I'm so pure. I'm so smart.”

Placing a finger on her temple, she recites "The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side."

“Actually,” Alice says behind her. “That's a right triangle.”

Dorothy freezes in the mirror, watching her sister in the reflection as drops her backpack onto its designated spot next to the door, then moves in front of the closet to remove her shoes and place them in the lone empty cubby.

“Why are you quoting that line anyway?” she asks, shedding her jacket and placing it neatly on a hanger. “You hate the movie.”

Dorothy doesn't answer, staying perfectly still, not even attempting to take the glasses off her face.

“Is that my sweater?” Alice asks, finally turning around and getting a good look at her sister. “Wait, what are you doing?”

Finally coming unglued, Dorothy takes off the glasses, shrugs and offers a sheepish smile. “I was bored.”

Expecting some kind of backlash, Dorothy braces for the verbal barrage no doubt to come, but Alice just steps quietly forward and takes her glasses out of Dorothy's hand.

“If you want to switch,” she says, hands moving to smooth out her sister's hair, continuing the action to some wrinkles on the sweater's shoulders. “Let me know ahead of time, okay?”

She grabs a different pair of glasses from the vanity, and carefully places them on Dorothy's face. “These don't have my prescription,” she explains. “So your eyes won't hurt if you wear them for awhile.”

Despite how odd it seems that Alice has a contingency plan for switching places any time they please, Dorothy grins.

“You're not mad?”

“You wearing my clothes without a gun to your head is too funny to be mad at,” Alice replies. “Now, Mom informed me that Dad will bringing Thai home for dinner. So be sure to use the fork with your left hand.”  
Dorothy nods.

“Come on,” Alice continues, pulling Dorothy's hands and leading them across the hall. “We should have just enough time to find something convincing for me to wear.”

“Wait,” Dorothy says, pulling them to a stop. “Mom said something earlier. You don't like, narc on me or anything right?”

“Of course not,” Alice replies. “I tell her the kind of rapscallion escapades she'd expect from the children of Blair Waldorf. If she knew what we really got into, we wouldn't be allowed to leave the house.”

Dorothy smiles. “I'm keeping this sweater.”

Alice rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

/\/\/\

Alice sighs as Dorothy sheds a few heartbroken tears into her leg. Idly stroking her sister's hair, head cradled carefully in her lap, Alice tries not to let her own opinion spill out in a scathing commentary. Rogers, that ass, had broken up with Dorothy due to a few shoddy photos and unfounded bits of hearsay.

The act itself isn't all that surprising, rumors had been surrounding the couple for the last few weeks, but despite Dorothy's insistence to the contrary all it took to finally push Rogers away was the blurred image of someone that, could have been, kind of resembled, her.

As if she would just make out with some random guy at a party they weren't even at. A detail that the masses seem to be conveniently ignoring, the truth never so interesting as the lie, especially when when concerning the reigning queen of Constance.

So here they are.

Dorothy is still in mourning, not yet in the mindset of a dish best served cold, but the gears in Alice's mind are already turning. She has a pretty good idea of who posted the photo, but getting solid proof is going to take time.

Dorothy lets out a shaking breath, and Alice leans forward, pressing her forehead against her sister's hair.

“We'll get who did this,” she whispers firmly. “We'll have their head.”

/\

Next morning in the quad, she sits in her usual spot to Dorothy's left, minions spread in a semi circle behind them. The tablet rests carefully in the crook of her elbow, as she scrolls through all the information freshly hacked from everyone's phones.

 

Dorothy sits idle, not even bothering with the yogurt in hand, while everyone prattles on about this and that. She didn't even want to come to school today, but Alice convinced her that queens don't hide, they hold their heads high no matter what scandal attempts to disgrace them.

So she's here, but is not looking especially happy about it.

Alice mentally goes through the list of suspects, instinct telling her it was one of their own. First, Rosalie Stillford. A Freshman who's still green and grateful just to have ascended to their ranks, but the only salacious things on her phone a few dirty texts with some guy whose name she doesn't recognize, and a some pictures of herself in her underwear.

Next up, Amber and Riley Bishop. Sisters a year apart almost to the day. Their phones turn up plenty on rumor mill material, but spreading them is kind of their thing, and none of it is particularly malicious nor directed at Dorothy.

Follow that by Mirabelle Lebowitz. Alice doubts her ambitions lie in a hostile takeover, because she hardly ever talks, and addressing the masses seem like the girl's worst fear. Her quietness does lead to near invisibility, and all the sweetest gossip comes from what she overhears.

Last is Evelyn Takahashi. The only reason Alice has a slight doubt in her mind about this girl is that it seems a little too obvious. She was Queen Bee at her last school, is the only one here who ever second guesses any of the groups plots and scandals, and would easily slide into Dorothy's place should anything ever manage to take her down. Her phone reveals nothing. Which tilts Alice's suspicions all the more.

/\

“He won't stop staring at you,” Alice says, still combing through the digital evidence.

Dorothy looks up to where Rogers is grouped with all the drama kids, hands in his pockets, looking straight back.

“He's hurt,” Dorothy says.

“From a lie,” Alice retorts. “One he chose to believe even though he should know better.”

Dorothy doesn't respond, only pushes the lunch tray away.

“You're better off,” Alice insists.

“And you're just saying that because you hate him.”

“His current behavior isn't bringing out any endearing sides.”

Dorothy has no reply to that.

“You any closer to answers?” She asks after a few minutes.

“Narrowing it down.”

“What's taking so long?”

“Uh, how about the fact that we use our phones for everything? There's a ridiculous amount of data here, and despite how they act sometimes, none of the girls are idiots. If it's here, it's buried.”

“Find it,” Dorothy says in a tone that's all business, looking back to where Rogers and his group have vacated.

/\

When the picture turns up in the recently deleted file of a photo archive the group is known to use, the person who the account belongs to gives Alice a second of pause ever though she'd suspected just about everyone.

She doesn't tell Dorothy. Doesn't even let on that she's found something. Instead she digs for dirt, deep and endless, that will not only cease any further attempts at subterfuge but decree a warning as well. You mess with Dorothy and there are no limits to what will happen in retribution.

When Alice approaches Riley in the hall, paused in front of a drinking fountain with phone ever present in her hand, she gasps at the sudden appearance.

“You're clever,” Alice says, no hint of malice in her voice. “I'll give you that.”

“What?”

“Using your sister's phone to upload the picture. Tricky, tricky.”

Riley balks a second, unable to hide that fact that she knows exactly what Alice is referring to from her eyes.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she dodges anyway.

“Oh, let's not play that game,” Alice says. “Like I said, clever with a different phone, but it was still your account linked to the picture. Still your sticky little finger prints all over it.”

“So what do you want?” Riley asks. “If you were going to rat me out, you would have just done so.”

“I want you to confess,” Alice answers. “I want you to stand in front of my sister and to her face, tell her what a manipulative little bitch you turned out to be and ask forgiveness.”

Riley shifts uncomfortably, and Alice knows it's because she never talks like this. She's never so aggressive. The girl knows it's deadly serious but still attempts a defense.

“You know just as I do, we're always the afterthought in people's minds. First born, first in line, that's how it works.”

“Oh, is that why you did this?” Alice inquires. “Is that why you used Amber's phone? Taking out both with one scandal?”

“I just wanted-”

“I know what you wanted. And for the moment I'm going to ignore just how truly pathetic wanting to step out from the shadows of an elder sibling is. The spotlight isn't made for people like you. Or me. We're not the ones who get to shine.”

For a moment, Riley actually looks remorseful, but blood is already in the water and she's caught the scent.

“You're going to apologize,” Alice repeats. “Beg if you have to. And if I think one syllable isn't sincere, well, actions will be taken.”

Riley is taken aback.

“What do you mean?”

Alice calmly hands over her tablet, watches as Riley scrolls through the contents given, her expression dropping further the more she sees.

“How did you-”

“I'm very motivated pushed,” Alice replies. “And perfectly willing to ignore what a cliché sneaking around with your sister's boyfriend is. But just this once, if you do exactly what I say.”

Riley numbly hands back the tablet.  
“God, you'd never think it,” Riley says softly. “Looking at you.”

Alice allows the smallest smile.

“That's kind of the point.”


End file.
